Arcane Heir: History's Strongest Mage

"We at Arcadia offer five core subjects to all our students," Bartholomew began, his calm smile still etched firmly in place. "Regardless of one's innate talents, you will learn these foundational disciplines."

He ticked them off on his fingers as he spoke. "Mana Theory, History, Alchemy, Spellcrafting… and, of course, Combat."

Michael's eyes narrowed slightly. The headmaster's gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly on that last word, his eyes glinting in a way that made Michael's skin prickle. Though Bartholomew's smile never wavered, Michael swore he could feel a shift in the man's presence—as if a gleaming sword had just been drawn from its sheath, poised to strike.

A murmur swept through the room at the mention of Combat. Several of the new students leaned forward, unable to mask their excitement.

Bartholomew cleared his throat, and the chatter died away at once. "In addition to these core subjects, first-year students may also select from a number of electives. Your eligibility will, of course, be tied to your examination results."

He waved a hand dismissively. "But there's no need to choose now. You will receive a list upon reporting to your assigned dormitories."

Then his tone shifted. "What I require from you now… are class representatives."

Michael frowned, scanning the faces around him.

Class representatives? The thought tasted sour. Is he asking us to choose someone among ourselves? That's bound to turn into a popularity contest.

His gaze inevitably landed on Braydon Marbury. Michael had already noticed how the others orbited the boy — well-liked, well-connected, with the sort of pedigree that impressed young nobles. If it came down to a vote, Braydon would walk away with the title without even trying.

"Excuse me, Headmaster, sir." Braydon stepped forward, posture respectful and voice perfectly modulated.

"Yes, Mr. Marbury?" Bartholomew's short beard shifted with the warmth of his smile.

As Michael had expected, Braydon was the first to seize the moment. Before their earlier confrontation, Michael might not have cared. Now, though, the idea of Braydon gaining even a sliver of formal authority set his teeth on edge. Whatever the role entailed, Michael had little doubt Braydon would find ways to make his life miserable.

"May I ask," Braydon began smoothly, "what duties the class representative would have?"

"A fine question, Mr. Marbury," Bartholomew replied. He clapped his hands together once — sharply. "But perhaps, instead of interrupting me, you might wait until I've finished speaking." His voice dipped an octave lower, a deep, resonant tone that seemed to rumble from somewhere far below the surface.

"Ah…" Braydon faltered, his easy smile slipping away.

The air in the room seemed to tighten. Every student stilled, their attention caught by the sudden edge in the headmaster's voice. Even Michael was momentarily stunned — the man who had projected nothing but genial authority had, in a single sentence, revealed the steel beneath.

Michael had glimpsed hints of Bartholomew Arcadius's dangerous nature before, but this was the first time he had seen it surface so plainly. One small overstep by a first-year, and the mask had cracked just enough to show the iron underneath.

"Now, where was I?" The headmaster's warm expression returned as though nothing had happened. "Ah yes — class representatives. We need two from among you."

He spread his hands in a grand, open gesture. "Normally, the first-years would choose their own. However…" His gaze swept slowly over the crowd, and Michael could swear he felt the weight of it even without meeting the man's eyes directly.

"…this year, we are fortunate enough to have two truly outstanding talents among you who fit the role perfectly."

With a subtle wave of the headmaster's hand, the students were pushed aside by an unseen force, clearing a direct path toward a pair standing arm in arm.

Eh? Surely not… Michael's stomach dropped.

"Miss Melody Winterborne and Mr. Michael Ellis," Bartholomew announced, his arms spread in a welcoming gesture. "Would you please make your way to the front?"

Michael swore inwardly, feeling the weight of every gaze in the room pinning him in place. Melody being chosen wasn't surprising — she fit the image of a class representative perfectly — but why him?

When his eyes met the headmaster's, he caught a glint there, one that said plainly: I know exactly what you are. In that moment, Michael understood. The man knew his examination results. He knew about the unique soul. And he was interested.

With no graceful way out, Michael moved forward alongside Melody — still linked to her arm without even realizing it. The shock of being singled out had dulled his awareness of nearly everything else.

At the front, Bartholomew's ever-present smile greeted them. "You two make a fine-looking couple," he said with a light chuckle.

"Thank you, Headmaster," Melody replied with a graceful curtsy.

Michael's mind lagged behind, but he managed to stammer a polite thanks and offer a short bow. Some clarity was finally returning after the emotional battering he'd taken all afternoon.

"Your duties will not interfere with your studies," Bartholomew continued, "but you will attend council meetings and discussions on various matters throughout the year. You'll also represent the entire first-year class in those meetings."

His gaze swept over the room. "Any questions?"

A long pause followed. Then a familiar voice started, "I have a questio—"

"Nobody? Very well," the headmaster said smoothly, clapping his hands and neatly cutting off Braydon mid-sentence.

Michael's lips twitched, a laugh bubbling dangerously close to the surface. One glance at Braydon's face — the pinched expression, the swallowed outrage — nearly undid him.

"I'm sure it's been a long day for all of you," Bartholomew went on, unbothered. "You'll now be directed to your dormitories to settle in before the grand feast tonight in the Great Hall."

He raised his left hand, and a small, intricate magic circle blossomed into existence above his palm. It glowed a deep violet before releasing a hundred tiny projectiles of mana that zipped through the air like shooting stars.

Michael tracked one as it curved toward him, landing neatly on the back of his left hand. A violet emblem — a stylized open grimoire — shimmered to life against his skin, faintly pulsing.

"Inspect the color of your emblem," Bartholomew instructed, "and follow the sprite that matches it."

Then, seven lights suddenly appeared in midair, each glowing in a different hue: white, yellow, orange, red, blue, green, and violet — the colors of the Arcana rings.

Michael glanced at Melody's hand. A matching violet emblem glimmered there. He let out a quiet breath. At least he'd be traveling with someone familiar… someone who wasn't actively plotting his demise.

"Go now, my little seedlings," the headmaster said warmly. Then he clicked his fingers. His form vanished instantly, leaving only a ripple in the air where he had stood.